


The Case of the Missing Fiancé

by Freebirdflying



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Deductions, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Makes Deductions, John is nervous, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Plotting, Texting, planning, sex is good for brainwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebirdflying/pseuds/Freebirdflying
Summary: John Watson was bent over the desk in the sitting room with his pants shoved down around his knees when he had the most brilliant thought he’d ever had: he could marry Sherlock Holmes. The idea was easy; figuring out how to ask would take a bit longer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Susan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/gifts).



> For the 2017 Winter Holmestice exchange. I hope you enjoy it!

John Watson was bent over the desk in the sitting room with his pants shoved down around his knees when he had the most brilliant thought he’d ever had. 

_Fuck, yes, I have to keep him forever. I love him so much I could marry him. I...COULD marry him. I could marry Sherlock! I...oh. Oh, yes. I...marry him...yes, oh. God yes. Fuck…_

“Oh, _god,_ yes. Sherlooock…” John’s epiphany faded into the background as the entirety of his mental process turned to swearing and chanting Sherlock’s name and assorted gibberish. Who could form sentences when they had something so nice and hard battering at their prostate? 

***** 

Later that evening, John choked on his tea when his brain finally cleared and he remembered his mid-coital thought. 

“John?” Sherlock smirked from his place at the window with his violin and watched his boyfriend sputter and wipe his face with the sleeve of his jumper. “Swallowing is more effective when the tea goes down your esophagus, not up into your nose.”

John glared. The rest of his cup of tea had gone down the front, so he pulled his jumper off over his head. _If only he knew what I was thinking! He’d drop his bow. Oh...I’d better not even think about it in his presence; he’ll deduce it and I won’t get to have any fun._

Fortunately, John’s face was still hidden by a thick layer of wool while the expressions accompanying those thoughts crossed his face. How had the jumper gotten caught on the sleeve button? _Damn this thing._

The awkward twisting needed to rid himself of the damp jumper did at least mean a grimace of annoyance was on his face by the time Sherlock saw it again. And then Sherlock dared to _giggle._

“Oh, shut up. Your fault I choked on my tea, anyways.” John stomped back to the kitchen to refill his teacup and retrieve a dry jumper that had been left slung over the back of a kitchen chair the night before. 

“ _My_ fault? How is the breakdown of your ability to properly ingest liquids _my_ fault?” 

_Shit. I should NOT have said that. Now he won’t leave it alone._ Fortunately, John had another few seconds to think in a safe cocoon of wool as he pulled on the new jumper. 

“I...I wasn’t thinking and sat down in my chair a bit...roughly.” John put on his best slightly-embarrassed-but-amused-at-a-dirty-joke act. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 

“...uh, bit, ahem, sore from what we, um, did this afternoon.” _Look at feet, fiddle with teacup, can I blush on command?_

Sherlock put down the violin. He was trying to hide how pleased he was; probably a bit not good to be smug about one’s lover’s pain. 

“Oh, John.” He crossed the room, took the teacup out of John’s hand and sat it on the end table. “Come here.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him into an embrace. John went along, but arched his back to quirk an eyebrow up at him. He didn’t trust him for a minute. 

“Shall I massage it and make it better?” Sherlock crooned as he grabbed two generous handfuls of arsecheek. 

“Oi! Hands off until at least tomorrow!” John wasn’t really in _that_ much pain, but the distraction was working. 

Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John’s hair; John took the gesture as an “I’m a little bit sorry, but not really really sorry,” which is exactly what it was. 

“So, so worth it, love.” John gave him a kiss and then buried his face in the long, pale neck he so loved to touch. _Good move, Watson. Crisis averted._


	2. Chapter 2

For the next four days, John spent every moment he wasn’t in the same room as Sherlock, including while Mrs Hattersley gave a full account of her considerable history with bunions, considering his options and working himself into a snarl of doubt. 

Would Sherlock even _want_ to be married? It wouldn’t really change anything about their day to day lives. They already lived together, had joint friends/bills/beds/dislike of coconut, and could out-bicker any couple who had been together for fifty years. There was, of course, some tax benefit, and fewer calls to Mycroft when dealing with hospital visitation rules and such, but would Sherlock just scoff and go on about the meaningless piece of paper, and insist he didn’t need the government’s approval of his living situation? 

While he clearly loved John to the point that John sometimes felt like he was disentangling himself from an octopus when he tried to exit the bed, would the idea of being married be too much of a departure from his self-image? 

What if he said no? It wasn’t like they’d have to break up if he did; they could just stay the same as now and the same was wonderful. John was self-aware enough, however, to realize that even though it wouldn’t change anything, hearing no would hurt. 

But..he didn’t want to just _ask_ what he thought about the idea; if they discussed it calmly over toast and scrambled eggs, then he wouldn’t be able to make asking _special_. And Sherlock deserved special. _Especially_ since he’d seen John propose before. Somehow, it was absolutely necessary to make this proposal somehow bigger or better than the one before, just to prove a point. John needed him to know that he was more excited about the prospect of proposing to Sherlock than he ever had been with Mary. 

*****

It was half eleven on Tuesday night, and John had two fingers buried deep inside his potential propose-ee and a nipple in his mouth when he had his next breakthrough moment. 

_I’ll deduce it. I’ll look for chances to bring up weddings, maybe other people’s, and see how he reacts. Molly’s is next month; I can get her to gush about it to him and report back to me about how he reacts. If she hasn’t already. Maybe I could...oh, you like that, hmm?...maybe there’ll be a case that...oh, fuck, that was a lovely moan. What will you do if I suck here? And here?_

“John! Oh, Joooohn. Please...oh…” _Think later. Busy now._

*****

Two days later, as they were walking from the scene of a murder-for-life-insurance-payout to that-Korean-place-with-that-thing-I-liked-that-we-went-to-after-that-case-you-know-the-one-with-the-girl, John noticed a small jewellery shop on the corner as they waited at the zebra crossing. The wedding sets glinted in the afternoon sunlight. 

He let his eyes linger for juuust long enough...yes, he saw it, now look away...on the gold rings. 

Yes, now Sherlock was looking in the window to see what caught John’s attention. John watched out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock’s eyes lingered just a moment longer than necessary, too. _Annnd...ha. There it is. He glanced at my hand! Now, don’t let him linger on it too long..._

“What was that seagull carrying?” John craned his neck as if trying to get another glimpse of something that was now out of sight over the rooftop. 

“What?” Sherlock craned his neck, too, but the imaginary bird was long gone. “What did it look like?” 

“Something orange and furry. If it wasn’t for the odd colour, I would have said it was a toupee or a wig…” 

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip in a pout that he hadn’t seen it. “I need to do further research on what items attract the attention of a variety of local bird species. It’s possible that crucial evidence could be carried away, and if I checked nearby nests…” 

John let him ramble for a minute before poking him in the side and then stepping off the kerb. 

“Light’s turned. Let’s go.”

Aaaaand.... _there_. Sherlock glanced back at the jewelry store display. 

_Watson 1, Holmes 0._

*****

As they lingered over their bibimbap and soju, John felt quite optimistic about the eventual results from deducing whether or not Sherlock would appreciate being proposed to, but by the time they got back to Baker Street the doubts had crept back in. 

The neglected laundry that had piled up gave him an excuse to go downstairs and analyze his findings without being observed. The scene of actual housework taking place could be counted upon to be a Sherlock-free zone. 

_He looked at my hand...but was he imagining me wearing a ring to match his? Would he even want to wear rings, if we were married? Or would he scoff at the tradition? Or did he think that I was feeling nostalgic for the good times with Mary before that all went to shit? Or worse, that I regret that being with him has kept me from finding a new wife?_

“John, dear?” 

John’s mind jerked back to the present. Right. The laundry room was a Sherlock-free area, not a landlady-free area. 

“Mrs Hudson! Do you need to do a load? I have another to do, but it’s nothing urgent if you want to put in a load after I finish this one…” _Shut UP, Watson. Keep this rambling up and not only the World’s Only Consulting Prat but everyone you know will be able to deduce you’re up to something._

“Oh, no, dear, but thank you. I did mine this afternoon, but I was missing something when I went to put it all away and came to see if I dropped it here. Is everything quite all right?” 

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” _THAT sounded convincing._

“Is Sherlock giving you trouble again?” _Oh, no. The “knowing” smile. Isn’t it time for her evening soothers?_

“No, he’s fine. Well, as fine as he can be; I did find the tongues, but you know I’m used to that.” 

“Of course, dear.” Mrs Hudson sounded less than convinced. 

“Why, has he said something?” If anyone were to get Sherlock Holmes to confess to his true feelings on a subject, it would be Mrs Hudson. 

“No, it’s just...you’re fondling his sock.” 

“Oh. Right.” John blushed and dropped the sock into the water and slammed the washer door shut. 

“Adding soap would be helpful, dear.” _Fuck._

Mrs. Hudson laughed good-naturedly as John quickly added a scoop of detergent without meeting her eyes. 

“Well, if you need to talk, you know where to find me.” 

He couldn't ask Mrs Hudson her opinion on whether he should propose. She was such a romantic that she’d squeal and then set Sherlock on the scent with her knowing looks. She would probably look disappointed every time they came home from a date without making an announcement. But...maybe the _other_ questions…

“Mrs Hudson...has Sherlock ever said anything about…” _Fuck._ “...about if he thinks I don’t take our relationship as seriously as I would if I were in a relationship with a woman?” 

She crossed her arms and looked at him seriously for a moment. 

“Now where would you get an idea like that? You know he adores you, John.” 

“I know.” John looked down at his shoes. “It’s just...I’ve never been in a long-term relationship with a man before. With the women I’ve dated, well, there are expectations. You know, how big of an occasion should be made of anniversaries, how the relationship should progress, milestones, things like that.” He took a breath and glanced up. Oh, great. She was looking at him with that soft smile, like he was a precocious six-year-old. “But with him...he’s never brought up expecting...things...because we’ve been together a certain amount of time or because we…” he trailed off. 

Mrs. Hudson hummed in acknowledgement and he went on. 

“It’s just...by this point with...with _her_ …” Mrs Hudson snorted. Mary had never been her favourite, even when she was just the friendly nurse from the clinic. 

“Well, she was hinting about what she wanted. He doesn’t do that. But is it because he doesn’t _want_ , um, things, or because he thinks _I_ don’t want them, or that I would with a woman but not with him, or is it too soon, or is it just not something he thinks about at all…” 

“Oh, John. He hasn’t said anything, but I see the way he looks at you. I think that he’s still so surprised to have what you two have now that he hasn’t dared hope for more.” 

John nodded. “But do you think…” 

“I think that he still fears losing you too much to risk asking for something that you are not ready to give. But if _you_ were to propose, well.” 

“Who said anything about proposing?” John choked out. “I just…”

“ _John_. I’m not that daft.” Silly boy; could it be any more obvious? “Don’t worry! I’m not going to tell him. I wouldn’t spoil your surprise!” 

“I...it’s just an idea, right now, I don’t know if...when…”

She patted his arm reassuringly. “That’s fine, dear. I _can_ keep a secret. Just let me know when he says yes and I’ll bake one of those chocolate cakes he likes so much and bring it up to celebrate!” 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson. But _please_ …”

“He’ll say yes. Why wouldn’t he? He’s always wanted a soldier.” 

“Always...a soldier...what did he…how did you...”

“Ah! Here it is! I knew it must be down here somewhere!” Mrs Hudson pulled a lacy bra in an alarming shade of pink out of the dryer. “Now, I must be off; I’m meeting an old friend for drinks in half an hour! Just let me know once you’ve made your plans if there’s anything I can do to help!” 

And she was off. John was left sputtering a bit and deciding that once he put this load in the dryer that it would be quite alright until morning. He was _not_ coming back downstairs at any point for the rest of the night just in case Mrs Hudson brought that “old friend” home. Although she would be well within her rights to have revenge for what she overheard from upstairs last month… 

_Well. She seemed to think it’s a good idea, but then she would, wouldn’t she? She’s always wanted her own “married ones,” so isn’t she a bit biased? But she did make a good point that Sherlock wouldn’t take a risk unless he was sure that it was what I wanted. Hell, he’d probably agree to marry me just because he didn’t want to disappoint me...but I don’t want him to agree just to make me happy. I want it to be what he wants._


	3. Chapter 3

A week later, John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and two of Lestrade’s sergeants, Owen and Carl, were crammed into a booth at the pub. Sherlock still didn’t join in “that pedestrian pastime of the masses who insist on using alcohol to depress even further the meagre brain function they possess” very often, but he did give in occasionally these days. He said it was to observe the behavioural patterns of the inebriated, but really was more to do with the big-sad-puppy-eyes expression that John was quite masterful at. 

Sherlock was entertaining himself now by gradually drifting his hand higher and higher on John’s thigh, to see what point he could reach before John elbowed him. 

“Ah, ta, mates.” Lestrade looked happier than he had all day when Owen and Carl returned with a round of pints. He downed half of his before they’d even had the chance to sit down. “I’ve been needing a pint all afternoon.” 

“Stressful day at the office, eh?” John joked. They’d just come from wrapping up a murder-to-cover-up-embezzlement case down in the financial district and had spent the day surrounded by nervous secretaries, angry executive officers, and incriminating evidence on the copier. 

“Meh, didn’t help.” Lestrade took another gulp. “Ran into my ex this morning.”

“That sucks. I’ll drink in sympathy for that!” Owen had been divorced for two years himself. 

“Yeah...of course, she was with that P.E. teacher, the one she was messing around with when she and I were trying to work things out there at the end.” Everyone but Sherlock groaned in empathy. 

“And she kept touching her face while we were talking, just to make sure I couldn’t miss her diamond ring. Bloody thing. Probably hoping I’d notice it’s bigger than the one _I_ gave her. Of course it was, I was just a constable then. She was happy enough with it at the time.” 

“That’s rough, man.” 

“And _then_ she has to ask if I’m seeing anyone, and made those annoying little cooing noises when I said I wasn't. I shoulda just lied and made someone up.” He downed the rest of the pint. 

“Exes. They’re the worst. You’re divorced, too, aren’t you, Dr Watson?” Owen was new to the division; John had only met him a few times and had never really spoken to him. 

“John, please. And yeah, I am divorced. Thankfully, my ex-wife moved to America, so I’m spared any surprise meetings.” Especially as her new home in America was in a maximum-security penitentiary. 

“Yeah, that’s some good luck there. Mine’s in Manchester, at least. Still not far enough.” Owen was obviously still quite bitter. 

“I don’t know why I let her get to me,” Lestrade continued. “It’s been three and a half years since the divorce was final. Why should I care what she thinks?” 

“She’s just trying to wind you up. Next time tell her you’ve snagged a supermodel.” 

“Meh, she’d know I was making that up, and I’d look even more pathetic.” 

“A toast to exes staying far away!” Owen held up his glass and Lestrade clinked it with a grin. Owen chugged the rest of the pint while Lestrade glared at his for being empty.” 

“Here, let me.” Owen gathered the empties and stood to make another trip to the bar. “Anybody else need another?” 

The talk turned to football while he was gone, but as soon as he’d settled back in with his new pint, Owen turned it back to the subject of divorce. 

“Jessica was so much fun when we were dating. But bam, put a ring on her finger, and the inner witch came out, you know what I mean?” _Well, referring to her as a witch probably didn’t help,_ John thought. 

“I dunno. Lisa and I were alright for the first few years, but then we both got busy with our careers, and…” 

Owen cut Lestrade off. “Well, it’s a mistake _I_ sure won’t be making again. Who needs marriage, eh, John?” He tipped his head towards John and then took another long drink of his beer. 

Sherlock had been quiet throughout the conversation, but John noticed that his hand had stopped moving. 

“Well, I…”

“That’s not…” 

John and Carl both spoke at once. John nodded at Carl to go ahead. 

“Sure, not all marriages are great, and not everyone’s meant for marriage, but I don’t think that’s reason to swear off marriage in general. There are a lot of good marriages, too. I don’t know what I’d do without my Amanda. We’ve been married for eleven years in October, and I love her even more now than I did when we started out.” 

Owen snorted, but didn’t say anything. 

“Not saying that it isn’t work, or always perfect, but we work well as a team, and I’d say we’re in a pretty solid place.” 

“I’m whinging a lot tonight, and yeah, my marriage ended badly, but looking back I know we both made a lot of mistakes. Neither of us really made each other a priority, and we were crap at communicating. I dunno if I’ll ever get married again, but I’m not totally against the idea. At least I’d know what mistakes not to make again. Besides, just look at my parents, who were together for forty-nine years before Dad died…” One thing that John really appreciated about Lestrade was that he was always fair, even if he’d been hurt himself. 

John didn’t look at Sherlock. _I have got to say this right. This could be important._

“I see it more your way, Greg. My marriage went to shit. But I married her for a lot of the wrong reasons (because she expected it, because at the time he still couldn’t admit he was afraid to be emotionally dependent on Sherlock again after his return, because everyone else seemed to think it was the right thing to do...he hoped no one questioned him too much), and she had lied about a lot of things her past. I should have broken it off before it got so far as a wedding. So we started out at a disadvantage, and things went downhill from there. But that doesn’t mean that marriage with someone else, for the right reasons and with realistic expectations of each other, wouldn’t be good.” 

Lestrade and John clinked their pints. Owen rolled his eyes, and Carl looked at them rather proudly.

“Yeah, well, before we start a therapy session here at the table, did anybody watch the Arsenal vs Chelsea game last week?” 

“Yeah! Did you see that goal in the second half that…”

John resisted the urge to look up at Sherlock, but he saw Lestrade shoot a quick curious glance his way. Sherlock’s hand started moving again up and down his thigh, edging just a bit higher than before. 

_Thank god. He must be pleased with my answer._ John let himself press just a little closer to Sherlock’s side. 

*****

Forty-five minutes and two elbows to Sherlock’s ribcage later, they finally caught a cab back to Baker Street. 

Thankfully, John had the perfect way to keep Sherlock from bringing up the conversation once they were alone. As soon as the door shut behind them, he grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands, placed them on his own crotch, and began enthusiastically rubbing himself against them. 

“You bloody tease, with your hand on my thigh! I had to think of your experiment with the pig entrails just so I could walk out of the bar without embarrassing myself!” 

Sherlock was looking at his hands in surprise at where they’d gotten off to without his input, but seemed content to leave them there.

“Oh, fuck…” John pressed those lovely hands harder against his jeans. “I’ll show you what you can do with those hands…” 

Sherlock squeezed. 

The conversation from the pub did not come up again that evening.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was elbow deep in a drowning victim entirely too early on a Thursday morning. John and Molly were observing from just far enough away to avoid being splattered. 

“Coffee, Molly?” 

“Oh, um, yes, please. Two sugars.” 

“A-HA! He DID have multiple intestinal worms! This one is still moving! Tapeworms can grow to be thirty meters. If this one is longer than ten, then it was the sister who…” 

John and Molly looked at each other. 

“I’ll go with you!” she chirped with a falsely bright smile. 

John debated all the way down the hall to the breakroom. Involving other people was a good way to get found out; he’d already taken a huge risk with Mrs Hudson. But...Molly, as a soon-to-be-bride, might be able to get information he could not…

As she stirred the sugar into her drink, Molly was humming that love song by the ginger bloke--Eli? Evan? Ed? John couldn’t tell all these young singers apart--that the nurses at the clinic had played on repeat a couple of years back. Her diamond ring glinted in the fluorescent lighting. 

Okay. John wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Hey...Molly.” 

“Mm?” 

“Could I ask you a favour?” 

“Sure, John, what is it?” She hovered her mouth over the rim of her mug, but decided it was still too hot to risk a sip. 

“Has...has Sherlock said anything about weddings to you?” 

“Um, well, he’s told me he’s planning to wear a green suit to mine, just to clash with the mint and peach colour scheme, but I’m pretty sure he was joking. I hope.” 

John rolled his eyes. 

“I wouldn’t worry about _that_ , if I were you. Vain git, he’d never wear anything that would make him look bad in the photos. And I _promise_ I will keep him away from your aunt. No, I mean...has he said anything about what he thinks about weddings?” 

“What he thinks about…?” Molly’s face lit up. “Oh! Oh, _John_.” 

“ _Molly_. No. No, stop even _thinking_ it. He’ll deduce it if you don’t act naturally.” 

“Oh, John. Oh, the two of you! It would make me so happy to see…oh, I’m going to cry!” 

_Oh, god, she’s really tearing up._ “No, no, no. No crying. He’ll know! I don’t know if we _are_ getting married. I’m just trying to, well, find out if that’s even something he might be interested in. Someday. Maybe.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m getting it together.” She fanned her face. The tears stopped, but the overly enthusiastic grin did not. “So, what do you need me to do? Suss it out?” 

“Well, yes, but _subtly_. I don’t want him to know that I am asking...he may think getting married is just a stupid piece of paper he can’t be bothered with. I just don’t want to mention it to him unless I know he would actually consider it…” John trailed off while Molly continued to grin maniacally. _Shit. Now she’s imagining herself as the wedding fairy, spreading love and awkward dancing and bad cake to all. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked someone so cheerfully in wedding-mode._

“John. I’ve been holding back from talking too much about my wedding because I was afraid it would annoy him. But I could _use_ it. I’ll talk about my wedding and see how he reacts.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Just, um, see if he says anything. Really, more about marriage in general than just weddings; I’d be fine with something small if it’s the big party he objects to.” 

“Of course. I’ve got some ideas already!” 

John grabbed her arm. “Just... _careful_. If he has any idea that I’m even thinking about it, he’ll deduce it all and I’ll never get to do it right.” 

“Don’t worry! I’ve been gushing about my wedding to anyone who’ll listen for months. It’s about time he had a turn. Besides, after what he said about my skirt with the daisies, he _deserves_ to listen to every detail of the centrepieces Desmond’s sister is putting together.” 

“Okay.” John let out a breath. “Just...let me know if he seems positive about the idea, or if he calls you an idiot for caring about an outdated social construct. I mean, if he does that, smack him first, but let me know.” 

“Aye, aye, captain!” Molly giggled and headed back down the hall. 

John sighed and willed himself to think about the rugby match on telly last night so that Sherlock wouldn’t read his nervousness on him. 

As it turned out, John probably could have walked back into the morgue wearing a tutu and doing the Macarena without being noticed. 

“Sherlock!” Molly squealed. 

“What? How else was I to measure the lengths of the tapeworms? I’ve found fourteen individuals so far, so I needed to…” 

John might not be eating lunch today. Or ever again. 

*****

Hey, Dr Gay Wedding Planner! It’s your 

favorite spy to make her first report! :D

\--Molls xx

Received 18:11 

Molly, I swear to god I will delete 

you from my contact list. Sent 18:14

Aww, come on John. So, today I talked to 

your soon-to-be-fiance. ;) Received 18:15 

Deleting. Sent 18:15 

No you aren’t. So, I talked to YSTBF about how 

lucky I feel to be marrying Des. Received 18:17

And? Sent 18:20 

Oh, sorry, Toby fell off the bed and I had to coax 

him out from under it. He was so embarrassed 

he was hiding! Don’t worry, he’s not hurt, and 

he’s purring now! Received 18:26

So, he asked what difference being married was 

going to make, when we could just live together 

anyhow. Received 18:28

Oh. Well, at least I know. 

Thanks, Molly. Sent 18:30

Stop that! I told him that it’s more than just 

the legal stuff. You’re not just _saying_ I love you; 

you’re _acting on it_. I love you enough to change 

the course of my life and build a new shared life 

together. Received 18:32

It’s a state of mind; you just treat each other a bit 

differently when you’ve both made public declarations. 

Other people treat you differently. Received 18:34

You know that the other person has promised to stay 

with you forever, good and bad, sickness and health, 

all that. You can relax, in a way, knowing that the 

decision has been made; you’ve committed. 

Received 18:37

He didn’t say anything rude. I was shocked, really, 

I don’t know when he’s let me get out a speech that 

long without correcting me on something. 

You know how he is! :) Received 18:40

That is impressive. Did he say anything? 

Sent 18:41

He looked...thoughtful, after. He just wandered off 

without hearing me say goodbye.

Received 18:43 

Well, at least he didn’t reject the 

idea immediately. Sent 18:45 

No. And he managed to only roll his eyes once! 

Anyway, he came back about an hour later and gave 

me some really good ideas for how to fold the 

napkins for the reception! Received 18:48

Why am I not surprised? Sent 18:50 

So, that’s a positive sign, I think. I think he’s never 

really let himself think about it. Give me a few more 

days and I’ll find out more! Received 18:52

Yeah, okay. Let me know if you 

hear anything else. And thanks. 

Your thumbs must be tired from writing 

all that.. Sent 18:56 

A bit! Received 18:58

*****

John! John John John! Received 12:02 

Yes, Molly? Sent 12:03 

So TODAY, I was chatting about 

my wedding with YSTBF. Received 12:03 

Really, with the acronym? Sent 12:04

YES, with the acronym. So, I pretended to 

be so daydreamy about my cake that forgot 

who I was talking to. Received 12:05 

And I said, would you do the smash cake 

in his face thing if you were getting married? 

Received 12:06 

He said he’d never thought about it, but probably 

not. Good way to mess up a good suit. Received 12:06

Of course he’s worried about

his posh clothes. Sent 12:07

“Yeah, that’s YSTBF! So, anyway, I then 

pretended (wasn’t hard!) to get a bit maudlin. 

Received 12:08 

So I asked him if he’d ever thought 

about getting married. Received 12:08 

Molly! Oh, god. He’s going to know

I put you up to this. Sent 12:10

Stop panicing. Panicking? Never could spell that! 

Ha ha! It was completely natural in the conversation. 

Received 12:11 

He said not really (not sending that by itself 

so you won’t panic again, read the rest of the 

message, John!). So, I said, what about you and 

John? Do you think you’d ever? (Still natural in conversation! 

Just a nosy friend!) He said he didn’t think you 

would want to get married again. Received 12:14 

NOT THAT HE DIDN’T WANT TO. 

That he thought you wouldn’t want to. 

Received 12:15 

Since your last didn’t go well, he thinks you wouldn’t ‘

want to do all that again. He’s afraid talking about 

you + a wedding might bring up bad memories. 

Received 12:17 

And something about how you’d always

pictured yourself with a wife, so it might 

not be something you’d think of with a man. 

Received 12:18 

Really? He said that? Sent 12:20 

Well, I’m summarizing, of course. He just made 

some offhand comments. But I think that he has 

the idea that you got married last time mostly just 

because that’s what you do after you’ve been together 

awhile in a het relationship. She expected it, so you did 

it. But he won’t demand it, so why would you bother? 

Received 12:22 

Wow. I never thought about it like that. But yeah…

he’s right, or he was. It just occurred to me recently 

that I COULD marry him. Mary had started dropping

little hints weeks before until I couldn’t NOT propose

without looking like a completely oblivious sod. Sent 12:26 

I hate that he thinks my relationship with 

him isn’t worth as much effort. Now I REALLY 

want to marry him just to make sure he knows.Sent 12:28 

Oh, John. I think you should. ;) But really--he 

didn’t seem negative at all about the idea of

getting married. I think he’s just afraid to be 

disappointed if he thinks about it too much. 

Received 12:29 

Thank you, Molly. I really appreciate your help. 

REALLY. My lunch break is over, I’ve got to go. 

Sent 12:31 

No prob! I’ll let you know if I hear anything

else you should know! Good luck, John! I can’t 

wait to hear how you proposed! Received 12:32 

Ha, me too. Now I have to figure out how. 

Thanks again! Sent 14:41 


	5. Chapter 5

_Okay. I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask Sherlock to marry me. I’M GOING TO ASK SHERLOCK HOLMES TO MARRY ME. Whew. Breathe, Watson._

John had made up his mind to do it; now, _how_? Special, yes. But not just a fancy dinner out, with a ring presented over dessert--although Angelo would probably provide free champagne if they did it there, and that had always been rather “their” place…

A weekend away? In the park? On a holiday? Nah, Sherlock would roll his eyes at that. Too predictable. Sherlock didn’t like being emotional in front of a crowd, so most of the ideas John found online were right out (renting out a movie theatre and filling it with family and friends, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, on the scoreboard at a sporting event). _Think, Watson._

As before, sex proved to be a particularly useful mental lubricant for John. 

One lazy Wednesday afternoon, they were snogging on the couch, and John had just managed to get Sherlock’s shirt off and his own trousers unbuttoned when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. 

They ignored it for a few seconds, but as soon as the call went to voicemail, the buzzing started again. John pulled back and nodded. 

Sherlock scooped up the phone. 

“Lestrade.” 

“Yes.”

“Please be more specific than ‘interesting.’” 

“Hmm...yes.” 

“Address?” 

“Of course. Thirty minutes.” 

Sherlock tossed the phone back onto the end table. 

“Case?” 

“Case.” 

“Alright, let me just find my shoes, and…” John stood up and rebuttoned his jeans. Damn Lestrade’s timing. 

“Just one minute.” Sherlock, still seated, grabbed him by the hips. “I told Lestrade thirty minutes. It’s only a fifteen-minute cab ride.” He was looking up at John with a smirk. 

“Okay…” John was a bit confused until Sherlock unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the zip. “Oh. OH.” 

“But, are you sure…” 

“John.” And with that, Sherlock yanked his trousers and pants down to his hips and had one of John’s balls in his mouth before John had quite caught up with what was happening. 

“Oh. OH, yes, love...Fuck.” John’s cock had wilted significantly while Sherlock was on the phone with Lestrade, but perked back up quickly as Sherlock stuffed as much of it as he could fit in his mouth. 

This was obviously going to be fast and hard, so John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and held on. Sherlock had one hand around the base of his cock and one squeezing an arse cheek and was bobbing his head just. right. 

“Ooooh, yes. Oh, your _mouth._ ” Sherlock just hummed in response, and John’s couldn’t help but groan. 

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh...a case...oh, yes, yeeeesss...I could do it as a case. He’ll have to put together the evidence, figure it all out...oh, god, YES….maybe Lestrade would help, or no, better to have it be a client from the website...oh, fuck…_

“Mmm….fuck. Gonna come love. Oooh, yes…” 

*****

It actually took thirty-seven minutes for them to arrive at the crime scene, but the only things the yarders noticed was that they seemed to be in entirely too good of moods for a stabbing that was beginning to smell. Meh, those two were always a bit weird, really. 


	6. Chapter 6

John was ready. They had attended Molly’s wedding, and Sherlock had behaved fairly well. He had _not_ worn anything green, had only deduced cousins that Molly didn’t like very much anyhow, had kept his phone behind the centrepiece while checking his email during the speeches and had so enjoyed dancing with John that he had not begged to leave early. He had even looked just slightly wistful watching Molly and Desmond’s first dance together; John hoped it meant he was wishing for such a moment for himself, and not just that he was impatient to start dancing himself. John was still nervous but was confident enough that Sherlock would appreciate the gesture of proposing that he decided to move ahead. 

John spent a lot of time thinking and planning and googling odd things to the point that he was surprised he hadn’t had a message from Mycroft regarding his search history. He mostly worked on the details of his plan during his lunch breaks or when Sherlock was out or asleep; Sherlock’s observational skill were both wonderful and occasionally very inconvenient.

He bought rings while Sherlock was at the morgue (he didn’t quite trust the doctor who was filling in while Molly was on her honeymoon, and had gone to run some tests on the body himself). The bloke at the shop had enthusiastically educated him on the possibilities for a homosexual couple: they could both have engagement rings, and then swap them out for wedding rings (his recommendation; John cynically assumed he worked on commission); he could buy an engagement ring to propose with, but not wear one himself, and then the weddings rings; he could just buy wedding rings. John wanted to keep it simple, and he’d never seen Sherlock wear jewellery before, so he’d probably prefer not to have all of the diamonds and fancy edgings and such. 

The matching set he chose were pale gold tungsten bands--he’d done his research; tungsten was supposedly quite durable, which goodness knows they would need. It looked the same as the gold ones, anyhow, to him. He would just propose with the wedding ring, and then Sherlock could either wait until the wedding to wear it or start wearing it now and then just take it off for the ceremony; it didn’t matter to John either way. 

This _did_ flag Mycroft’s attention. 

John’s phone rang before he’d walked out of sight of the jewellery shop. 

“Dr. Watson.” 

“Ah, Mycroft. I was expecting your call.” Honestly, John was surprised it had taken this long for Mycroft to stick his nose in. He leaned against the rail to finish the call before going down into the tube station. 

“I believe I may have once made a miscalculation.” What was Mycroft on about now? 

“Only once?” John snorted. Mycroft ignored him and continued smoothly. 

“On the day that we met, I asked if we should expect a happy announcement by the end of the week.” 

John just hummed in agreement. Always best to see where Mycroft was going before committing to anything. 

“As nearly seven years have passed since I made that pronouncement, I am forced to admit, though it pains me, that I was incorrect in my calculation.” 

“Um, yes?” 

“So at the risk of exposing myself to the same error for the second time, I will ask again, may we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” 

John barked out a laugh. 

“God, Mycroft! I would say that this time the odds are significantly better. If he’ll have me, that is. Well, maybe not by the end of the week; I'm still working on a plan. But by the end of the month, unless a major case comes up to keep us busy. ” 

“I do sincerely wish you the best...John.” _So, I suppose if I am to be his brother-in-law, he will finally have to use my name. Oh, God. Mycroft will be my brother-in-law._

“Thank you, Mycroft. And if you in any way tip him off, I will tell your mother that you are dating someone but don’t want to take them home to meet your parents.” _Untrue as far as I know, but all that would matter is if his mother believed it...he’d be badgered for weeks._

“I have no intention of ruining your surprise. Are you quite sure you will not accept a job as a torturer? You seem to possess the proper mindset.” 

“Not bloody likely.” 

“Good day, John.” 


	7. Chapter 7

After buying the rings, it took John three weeks, a pub night with Mike Stamford and several good shags to think up a scenario that sounded plausible enough that Sherlock would bother getting off the couch for it, but not so interesting that he’d be disappointed when it turned out to be made up. 

He frequently took a shift at the clinic on Fridays, so when he appeared in the kitchen in his work clothes, Sherlock only lifted his head from the microscope for a quick kiss. 

“Have some toast, yeah?” 

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum as John put on his jacket. 

“I’ll be back around six. Text me if you want me to bring takeaway.”

Once outside, John turned left without hesitating and walked at his usual pace until he was out of sight, just in case Sherlock happened to have abandoned the microscope for the window in the past three minutes. 

Once around the corner, he stopped and pulled his list out of his bag. Where to start? 

John had decided to go with a missing person case--urgent enough that John could convince Sherlock to go right away, but without having to acquire a body. He hadn’t been able to resist adding in some sentimental details that meant Sherlock was likely to see right through it, but hopefully he’d play along. 

**First Stop: Meet with Wiggins, Alley behind the Roland-Kerr Further Education College**

John had debated for some time about whether to involve the annoying junkie who considered himself the next great deducer, but who else could you pay to spend their Friday night setting up a fake crime scene, stick around to guard it, and clean it up again after? Besides, Wiggins had taken it as a personal challenge to see if he could set up a scene well enough to trick the great Sherlock Holmes, so he’d do a thorough job of it. 

As part of the negotiations (of _course,_ there were negotiations), Wiggins insisted on new boots for two members of the homeless network who he would have tromp around the scene early Saturday morning so that there would be evidence of two cops having stopped to investigate. John planned for the “client” to say that he’d asked the police for help first, only for them to decline since there was no clear evidence that a crime had been committed, at which point the client thought of Sherlock. John hadn’t argued too much; shoe prints _were_ the sort of detail that Sherlock was sure to notice, and besides, it would be winter soon, and he couldn’t begrudge them seizing the opportunity to avoid damp feet. 

**Second Stop: Angelo’s**

John’s plan was for the evidence at the “crime scene” to lead back to Angelo’s, and so he paid in advance for a takeaway box to be ready that evening for Wiggins to collect. Wiggins was to eat half of it, then splatter the rest around the scene at the college, with the bag and receipt left nearby for Sherlock to notice. 

Fortunately, he arrived before the lunch rush, so Angelo came out into the back alley to rehearse his lines. 

“This bloke ‘ere, is it?” John showed him the photographs that the “client” would provide of the victim. 

“Yes, that one. If Sherlock asks if you remember seeing him in the restaurant on Friday night, say you saw this one.” 

“Yes, and then I’m to say that I remember ‘im because of the bag he left behind, which I’m still holding in the office in case anyone comes to call for it.” 

“Perfect. And after we leave, Tommy’s going to take our order over to Baker Street?” 

“Yes, yes. And the champagne, don’t forget that! Ah, me, I just knew when Sherlock brought you in, all those years ago, I thought, those boys need a candle, and now! Ah, che bello l’amore!” 

“Um, yes, thank you, Angelo. Wouldn’t seem right without the candle now. Mrs Hudson will be there to answer the door and take the food.” 

**Third Stop: Lunch and a Minor Panic Attack**

John managed to escape Angelo’s insistence that he have a little something to eat while he was there; if he went inside, he was afraid that somehow, even hours later, Sherlock would smell it on him. Better to be safe, and besides, he had a schedule to stick to. He stopped for a sandwich at Pret a Manger and took it into the park to eat on a bench. 

Only three benches down from the one where his life changed forever when Mike Stamford said, “You’re the second person to say that to me today.” 

He could have taken a different path. 

He could have brushed Mike off. 

Right there, that bench over there, nearly seven years ago…

And yet, he’d spent half of those seven years thinking that his best friend was dead, or staying with his replacement when he was too afraid to trust again. John shook his head. He’d brooded on his pain enough in those years; now, he was going to propose and be happy. 

To _propose_. To be _married_ to Sherlock Holmes. 

John’s sandwich sat mostly forgotten in his hand. 

Terrified. Joyful. Nervous. Guilty for not having reached this point long ago. Grateful that he’d had his miracle; his Sherlock came back. Thankful that Sherlock hadn’t given up on him through the entire debacle with Mary. Anxious. So desperately in love. And...just a bit of panic. Is that panic? Yes, definitely panic. 

_I’m going to ask him to marry me. I don’t know what I’ll do if he says no. Surely, he’ll say yes. Oh, god, please please say yes._

_I’M GOING TO ASK SHERLOCK TO MARRY ME._

_Oh god._

_Whatifallthisgoeswrongwhatifsherlockrefusestotakethecasewhatiftheresarealcasewhatifhedoesn’twantthiswhatif_

_Breathe, Watson._

_You’re a soldier._

John forced himself to finish the sandwich. 

**Fourth stop: Flower Shop**

John had eaten in the park because it was on the way to his next destination, a small flower shop near St. Bart’s. He remembered walked by it frequently when he was a student; he’d stopped to consider making a purchase on several occasions when a girlfriend he’d neglected due to the long hours of a medical student (okay, and rugby, slightly less excusable) needed to be placated. He’d only done it once, though (Lisa Lewis, third year); a uni student’s budget didn’t stretch that far. 

But now...he’d done his homework, and put in the order last week. 

The bell announcing his arrival tinkled over the shop door. 

“Good afternoon, sir!” A cheerful grandmotherly woman poked her head around the humongous arrangement she was assembling behind the counter.

“Oh, um, good afternoon. I have an order for Watson to pick up.” 

“Oooh, yes. Lovely, these.” 

Perfect. Long-stemmed roses in a deep purple hue, gathered with a black satin ribbon. That colour always made him think of Sherlock. He supposed it started with that shirt Sherlock used to wear so often, that perfectly complemented his pale skin. Hmm, there’s a Christmas gift idea, another shirt in that shade. And in his extensive meanderings through the offerings of Google, he’d found that purple roses symbolize love at first sight. It hadn’t been quite _love_ at first sight, infatuation, sure, and they hadn’t acted upon their feelings for years, but still--they seemed appropriate to give to Sherlock in the place where they had met. 

“Special occasion, dear?” 

“I’m…” John’s mouth felt a bit dry all of a sudden. “I’m proposing. Tomorrow. I...yeah.” 

**Fifth Stop: Mike’s Office**

One night, a couple of weekends ago, John had taken a break from fake-crime-planning to meet up with Mike Stamford for a pint and had found himself telling Mike about his difficulties. Of course, Mike was thrilled to hear that his flatmate-matching skills had proven right; perhaps he should take up a second career as Cupid? 

One of the main points that John hadn’t been able to resolve was where to produce a fake client from. Sherlock remembered everyone; who did John possibly know who Sherlock didn’t? Well, Mike’s people-matching skills to the rescue again--Mike’s son was now studying theatre and had dreams of the West End; he could always use a little freelance gig. Even better, he had a roommate who was almost exactly the same height and build as Wiggins (so that anything Wiggins did in the alley would at least be at the right eye level), who was willing to let them use his picture and description as the missing person. 

Now, John made his way upstairs to Mike’s office, carrying the ridiculous bouquet of flowers. Well, there was one way to attract attention. John found himself cooed at on the elevator, and most of the women he met gave him aren’t-you-a-good-boyfriend smiles, though several men gave more of a what-did-you- _do_ smirk. He was giggling by the time he made it into Mike’s office, though; two ladies in the doorway of the office next door were giving him to oddest look for delivering flowers to Stamford. 

“Sorry, mate, but I think you’ll have some explaining to do to your neighbours.” John gestured back towards the hallway. “Women next door gave me the oddest look for turning up at your door with flowers. No telling what gossip they’re coming up with right now.” 

Mike just grinned. “I ought to tell them a crazy tale just to see how far they’d believe it. Those two, I could probably get to believe that I have some secret admirer having flowers delivered to my office where my wife won’t see them. All other evidence to the contrary.” 

“Mike Stamford, the lothario of the anatomy lab.” 

“What, am I not the type?” 

John just snorted. Mike rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned to the third person in the room.

“John, I don’t think you’ve met my son, Teddy, in person.” 

A cheerful young man jumped up from the sofa where he’d been rolling his eyes at their silly conversation. 

“ Dr Watson. Nice to see you.” The boy had a good handshake, and thankfully looked enough like his mother that hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t immediately peg him as Mike’s son, if he wasn’t looking for a resemblance. 

“John, please.” 

John and Teddy had been emailing back and forth for a week, planning out what Teddy would need to know to play the part of a distressed boyfriend appealing for Sherlock’s help in locating his missing lover, and now they worked out the final touches. 

Mike had already scheduled office hours on Saturday afternoon, so he agreed to keep the flowers and a few other items John had brought along and set them out in the lab before he left. 

**Sixth Stop: Throwing off the Scent**

After leaving Mike’s office, John went to the clinic. The nurses were a bit surprised to see him; it was more common for John to not turn up when he was supposed to be there, thanks to a case or other Sherlock-related catastrophe, than for him to show up on a day he wasn’t scheduled. 

If he’d just gone home, though, Sherlock would be able to deduce he hadn’t been at work. He needed to absorb the smell of the clinic for a bit; he giggled a bit to himself wondering if he’d be sectioned if he was caught rubbing himself (no, not like _that_ ) on the supplies in the supply closet. 

He did wash his hands several times with the antibacterial soap and let his cuffs be splashed so the scent would be stronger. What else could he do? Ah, a bit of ointment on his shirt, and a splash of stale coffee that had been sitting in the break room all afternoon. 

Hmm. A bigger splash, actually; that would give him the excuse to change right away once he got home; best to give Sherlock as little time to observe as possible. 


	8. Chapter 8

Saturday morning dawned a perfect autumn day: the sky was nearly cloudless and a deep, vibrant blue; the leaves were sparkling in the sun; the air was crisp but not yet uncomfortably cold. John woke early and watched the sunlight play over the angles of Sherlock’s sleeping face. 

_This beautiful face. Today I’m going to ask if I can keep seeing it forever, watch it grow old._

He watched until Sherlock’s lashes fluttered and he finally cracked one eye open and gave John a smile. 

“Morning, love.” John gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Think I’m going to do a proper fry-up today. Will you eat?” Hopefully, by lunchtime they would be embroiled in the case, so they might as well fill up now. 

Sherlock snuggled deeper into the sheet and grunted. It sounded like a positive grunt, though, so John just rolled his eyes and got up. “I’ll wake you when it’s ready.” 

*****

Just before eleven, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson ushered up a distraught young man. 

“Mr Holmes?” He squeaked out. “I...I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but I don’t know what to do...my fiancé is missing, and the police won’t do anything, and I went to follow his route home and found the oddest scene…” 

_And we’re off_ , John thought, as Sherlock directed the boy to sit in the client chair, and John brought tea. 

“...Rob’s been acting a bit odd lately, keeping secrets, but things between us have been great. Honestly, I thought...I thought he might be getting cold feet about getting married.” Teddy looked down shyly at his hands. “But, god, now...if he’s dead…” Sniffle. 

_He’s quite good_ , John thought. _Wonder if there’s some way to recommend him to play the victim on one of the crime dramas on telly?_

“And it has not occurred to you that perhaps his odd behaviour was that he was planning to leave you, and has now done so?” 

“Oh, no. No, he wouldn’t ever…” Teddy took a ragged breath. John made a point of sending Sherlock the same behave-yourself glare he usually used when Sherlock was being overly blunt. 

“Then what, _precisely_ , makes you believe he’s been abducted?” 

“He had gone out to dinner with his sister; some Italian place on Wiltshire Street. He called me from the bus on the way home--he has a bedsit near Roland-Kerr College, where he’s a student--and we were talking about normal stuff. But once he’d got off the bus, he got quiet. Said he thought someone was following him. They’d followed him from the restaurant, but it was a pretty busy street so he didn’t think it odd that someone else would be getting on the same bus. But once he got off, the person was still following…I told him to go into a shop or something, but he said he wasn’t _sure_ if he was being followed. He thought he was just being paranoid, so he took a couple of random turns and said he was going to take a shortcut through a particular alley, because he thought he could get all the way through before the person caught up, and if they were following him, wouldn’t be able to see which way he had gone.” 

Teddy took a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair. Sherlock pursed his lips but kept them shut. 

“Then I heard him say, ‘Oh, you again? I left it at the restaurant. Teddy, I’ve got to go.” And then he hung up. 

Sherlock snorted, but Teddy was not deterred. 

“I have no idea what he was talking about or who was there; surely, if he was in danger, he wouldn’t have hung up, but it was all so strange!” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak so Teddy picked up the pace. 

“I tried calling him back several times during the night, and I even woke up his sister at four in the morning to see if she’d heard from him. Early this morning, I went out there to the college and tried to retrace his steps. I found the alley; it was crazy. There was food everywhere, and it looked like there’d been a fight. I called the police, and a couple of officers stopped by, but they said that since there wasn’t any blood they couldn’t see any evidence of violence, and since he’s an adult…told me to let them know if he didn’t turn up after twenty-four hours…” 

Teddy started breathing a bit faster. 

“I’ve called or texted everyone I can think of who knows him. No one has spoken to him since yesterday. He’s never done anything like this; usually, he’s always texting me or posting on Instagram; there’s been _nothing.”_

John attempted to look as moved as possible by the story and looked over at Sherlock with just a hint of the puppy-dog eyes. Sherlock looked back and forth between them. 

“Fine.” He jumped to his feet. “I’ll take a look at this alley. _If_ I see any sign of an abduction, I’ll look into it.” 

Teddy looked startled and then grateful. 

“Oh! Thank you! If anyone can sort out what happened there, it would be…”

“Yes, _yes._ We’ll be in contact; _do_ ring immediately if he wanders in with a hangover.” 

Teddy opened his mouth to protest further, but John motioned from behind Sherlock’s back for him to leave it be. 

“John. Your jacket,” Sherlock tossed it across the room as he plucked his own off the hook. Only John’s quick reflexes saved him from being hit in the face. 

*****

After Teddy had sent several photos of himself and the supposedly abducted fiancé to Sherlock’s phone, he was abandoned on the doorstep as Sherlock crowded John into a taxi. He wandered slowly down the street, dialling his phone to continue checking in with friends, or at least until the taxi turned the corner. 

He then cheerfully pocketed the phone and turned back to 221, where Mrs Hudson was waiting to provide him with the large batch of biscuits she’d promised him. John had paid the boy, of course, but these Uni students always appreciated something homemade, and if this day ended with her very own married ones, well. She just might have to send regular care packages. 

***** 

Roland-Kerr College of Further Education looked a bit different in the light of day. It hardly seemed like the sort of place for an encounter with a serial killer. Until he’d come scouting about for possible locations for a fake crime scene, John had not been back since the night he shot the cabbie. The what-ifs had made him stop and lean on the corner of the building to just reminisce a moment. He had felt so alive that night, running and chasing with Sherlock, facing down danger with a gun, laughing at the ridiculous fortunes in the fortune cookies at the Chinese restaurant...he should have realized then that he’d always want that mad genius in his life. 

Now, as they walked around the to the alley, John shivered a bit as they passed right by the window that he’d once destroyed with a bullet. It could have all been over then… Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he stepped a bit closer and reached down to squeeze John’s hand. 

The sombre mood was broken as soon as they saw the scene of the abduction. _Well,_ John thought, _Wiggins can certainly pull off crazy._ The narrow alley was now strewn with splattered Italian food (how did he get it all the way up there?), an umbrella mangled beyond all belief, one sock with a hole in it, scattered rumpled post-it notes, a toothbrush, and the skip, which had clearly been shoved a foot further down the alley than it normally sat and boasted a new dent. 

“What the…” John didn’t have to work too hard to feign surprise. “Is that a...what _is_ that?” Something green and slimy had been tracked all over the pavement. Sherlock bent to sniff. 

“Pesto.” 

“Well, don’t go sticking your nose in it. What if it’d been something poisonous?”

Sherlock scoffed and continued looking at the footprints in the muck by the skip. “If our client’s fiancé _was_ abducted, he did him no good by calling the police in. They’ve tromped around and contaminated any evidence there might have been on the ground.” 

John took pictures of the scattered objects and peered into the skip to see the carrier bags with odd bits of medical tubing and syringe bits that John had procured from the clinic. 

“You should see this.” 

Sherlock gestured that he’d be there in a minute. He was examining the creatively splattered tomato sauce on the side of the building, twisting and turning to imagine how the person doing the splattering must have been positioned. 

“It’s almost like a food fight, but there’s no void where the sauce was hitting someone,” John pointed out. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement before stepping closer and taking a deep sniff. 

“Oi! Again with the sniffing...can’t you sniff from less than a centimetre away?” 

“Angelo’s.” Sherlock announced. 

“What? Really? How could you possibly...there must be a hundred Italian places in London; surely Angelo’s…” 

“John.” Sherlock gave that arrogant toss of his head; how dare his deduction be questioned. 

“Of _course_ you can sniff out Angelo’s by their tomato sauce. Brilliant as always.” John just smiled fondly. 

Sherlock gave a quick cheeky grin--after all these years, he still puffed up when he managed to impress John. 

John was pleased with how the case was progressing so far. He had worried the whole time he had been planning it--Sherlock was so unpredictable in what would attract his attention at a crime scene. What if he _hadn’t_ thought of Angelo’s (although there was a takeaway container with a crumpled receipt from Angelo’s under the skip, just to make sure)? What if he had suddenly seen a suspicious bit of dirt and insisted on haring off to someplace John hadn’t set up? What if he had declared the case boring and refused to peel himself off the sofa in the first place? 

Sherlock spent several minutes poking through the carrier bags in the otherwise empty skip, tucking away a few odd bits of tubing into one of the small plastic evidence bags he kept in a coat pocket. He found the bag from Angelo’s, and made John nervous by paying entirely to much attention to the toothbrush, which had been an addition by Wiggins that John had no explanation for. 

When he returned to poke at the tomato-covered wall (which was now drawing ants), John ventured a hint. 

“Didn’t Teddy say that Rob said ‘I left it at the restaurant’? You don’t suppose…” he trailed off. 

Sherlock turned with a flap of his coattails. 

“Yes. Come along, John. We have an overly affectionate Italian to see.” 

*****

Angelo managed to play his part fairly well, although a little over-acted. Since Angelo was always ~~a bit~~ very dramatic, John hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice. 

“Oh, yes, yes...this one. I remember ‘im...he was here with a girl? Sister, maybe? They didn’t ask for a candle, and she left before him.” Angelo pretended to be thinking hard about his customers from the previous night. “Why? Is the boy in some trouble? If he is, he’s lucky to have you on his side!” 

Sherlock gave a noncommittal noise. “Did you see either of them speaking with anyone else while they were here?” 

“Nooo...but, of course, I was in the back checking on Gianluca several times...my nephew, he tries hard, but I have to watch or he’ll put too much rum in the tiramisu, and not enough basil on the gnocchi...I had hoped he would have The Gift, but I fear…” 

“Yes, _Thank_ you, Angelo. John, we should check the…” 

“Ah! But I almost forgot!” 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 

“The boy, he left his bag when he went away; I kept it in the office in case he came to back for it today. Do you want to see it?” 

Sherlock’s eyes brightened. 

John hung back in the doorway, as the tiny office was cramped even without both Angelo and Sherlock in it. One more connection to make...he just needed to get Sherlock to Bart’s. Had Sherlock figured out the case was staged yet? He was still playing along if he had, and that wasn’t like him, really, or at least not without copious eye-rolling...John could almost believe he had truly managed to fool the great detective, but he’d felt Sherlock sneaking little glances at him as they’d spoken to Angelo.

“Ah, here!” Angelo produced a small black backpack from the coat rack behind the desk. “This one; left it right in the booth, and hasn’t even called to ask about it!” 

_Please, Sherlock, please put it together,_ John pleaded mentally as Sherlock pawed through the contents of the bag. 

“Phlebotomy manual...length of medical tubing...shopping list on a torn piece of paper, other side is a syllabus for a class taught by Dr. Sanders (one of Mike Stamford’s colleagues; Sherlock had once consulted with him on the neurological damage likely to result from a rare illness a victim had had, _please, please, don’t have deleted him, Sherlock_ )...a package of toe tags, same brand that Molly uses…a set of 18 gauge needles...notes about aneurysms, on a pad of paper with the St. Bartholomew logo...blood sample tube. Hmm.” Sherlock held the tube of blood up to the light before placing it back in the bag. (The blood was actually Molly’s; John had asked her to draw his, just to add a touch of the macabre, but she had pointed out that Sherlock might notice a needle mark on him. When John protested, she’d laughed and pointed out it was hardly the weirdest thing she’d ever done for Sherlock Holmes.) 

“John.” Sherlock had his gleeful the-game-is-on smile. “We need to get to Barts!” 

*****

_This is it. Once he opens that door..._ John fumbled in his pocket for the ring. He’d taken it out of the box (Sherlock would be sure to notice a lump) and had used a large safety pin to secure it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Only Mrs. Hudson knew that he’d practiced for ten minutes on Thursday morning to make sure he could unpin it, without stabbing himself on the pin, quickly and smoothly (and she’d promised never to tell, and she didn’t, until she had too much eggnog at the Christmas party two months later). 

“Coming, John?” Sherlock looked back over his shoulder and paused to wait for John to catch up. 

“M’here…” John placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock gave him an odd little smile that John wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. “Go on, then.” 

Sherlock pushed upon the door and walked straight to the bundle of incredible purple roses. They were tied with a black satin ribbon, and had been laid carefully on the worktop beside his favourite microscope. The roses were resting on several pieces of sheet music; a quick glance was enough for him to see that they were from Mendelssohn’s and Wagner’s wedding marches. An envelope made of creamy, luxurious paper was propped against the roses, with his name written as carefully as it could be in John’s deplorable doctor’s handwriting. He stopped breathing. 

John quickly dumped the prop backpack of evidence on the floor by the door and went to stand next to the love of his life. 

“Sherlock?” His voice was low and soft, but it did not break. 

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face him. As he did, John took his hand. His eyes were bright, and his bottom lip trembled as if it couldn't decide whether to break into a smile or purse into a kiss. His hand trembled slightly as well, and John gave it a squeeze. 

John looked up into his eyes, and without breaking eye contact, lowered himself down on one knee. Sherlock gave a little choked noise. 

“Sherlock.” John gave him a shaky smile as he blinked down at him. “I...I am sure you have realized by now that the case isn’t real. I just wanted to have some fun getting you here tonight.” 

Sherlock nodded with a little laugh and squeezed John’s hand tighter. 

“I knew you’d probably recognize the pattern once you made the connection to Angelo’s. But today...today I wanted to remember those first days we spent together. I will never forget walking into this lab and you asking me ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ You amazed me right from the start, and I felt alive again running after you.” 

“John.” Sherlock breathed, barely above a whisper. 

“And now, all these years later, I’m so happy that we’ve..that we have become what we are to each other. There are so many ways in which you are brilliant and amazing. But I knew my knee would give out before I could tell you everything I love about you, so that’s what the letter in the envelope is for.” 

Sherlock chuckled. 

“We...” John swallowed thickly. “We know what it’s like to not have each other, or to not have each other completely, and now that I have you, I don’t ever want to not have you again.” 

“John, that may have been the most needlessly complex sentence I’ve ever heard you speak.” Sherlock acted as if he were trying to sort it out in his head. 

“Hush, you git.” John giggled. 

“Git? Please go back to the part where you were telling me I’m amazing. I liked that bit.” 

“Of course you did.” They were both smiling giddily. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s thigh and took a deep breath before meeting Sherlock's eye again. “Okay, I’ll be serious. You are the most brilliant, caring, amazing, sexy, insufferable, beautiful, maddest person I’ve ever met, and I love you more than I ever realized it was possible to love another person.” 

Sherlock was back to the lip trembling. John rubbed the back of the hand he was holding with his thumb. He unfurled his other hand to reveal the ring he’d been clutching. 

“Sherlock…” John took a deep breath. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Will you marry me?” 

There was a moment in which John gazed up without breathing and Sherlock blinked down at him without breathing before John felt himself being yanked to his feet and kissed even more breathless. When he finally was able to pull back, he just looked at the face of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen for a moment. 

“I...assume that was a yes.” 

“Yes, John. Your deduction based on my recent actions that I am amenable to your proposal is correct.” 

John snorted. 

“Yes...yes...yes…” Sherlock punctuated each yes with a kiss. 

“Oh! The ring. I just bought wedding rings; I don’t know if you want to wait until we’re married to wear it, but I have yours here and I’d rather like to see it on you.” 

They parted just far enough so that John could take Sherlock’s hand again. The ring slid on easily, and John raised the hand to his lips. 

“I love you, John.” 

“I love you, too, Sherlock. So much.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This story came together faster than anything I've ever written; I am normally a rather slow writer so I was surprised when this grew to over 12k words in about five days of writing. Feel free to let me know if you see any typos or anything that I missed; no matter how carefully I check, there's always something. 
> 
> This is my first time writing any smut whatsoever, so this is a bit of a new experience for me, even if the smut is very brief. I may come back and write an even smuttier epilogue to this if anyone's interested, but it probably won't be until I finish my current WIP. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone!


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